Small Breather
by GrrHatLet
Summary: A bittersweet moment between Harry and Tom


Merlin, if Harry was correct, he hadn't eaten in 3 days. _Three days_. Three days with no meals, not even a measly _scrap_ here or there. All Harry had was a few handfuls of water he took graciously from the bathroom sink when Aunt Petunia let him out to use the loo. The only _mouthfuls_ he had recently were the five-fingered sandwiches Dudley offered—as well as his generous friends, of course.

This of course had _no_ effect on his expectation of chores; if the Dursley's didn't see their quotas met, life would get even worse for Harry.

Worse. _That'd_ be something to see.

His skinny arms strained as he willed the wheelbarrow over to Aunt Petunia's flower garden. She was very finicky about flowers as Uncle Vernon was on the lawn. One plant out of place and Harry would be leaving his room by the time he was 60. He wiped his brow of its salty sheen and set to work. Merlin it was a hot day, and inside he could see Dudley shoveling down an ice cream sundae Aunt Petunia proudly, _gladly_ made for him; she actually cooed and pinched his cheeks in between bites of whipped cream and chocolate syrup.

Harry's body was so deprived of fluids he couldn't even break a proper sweat today. His hands pulled and plucked and yanked, ignoring the tiny cuts and stains and scrapes he got from the pointer, pricklier weeds. He dove into the ground with a rusty trowel—on its last leg, but if it broke, he knew who was getting blamed for it—and set the bulbs in their right crevice. He worked well into the day, from when the sun was up just enough shine perfectly into his eyes, until it was mounted overtop of him (probably to point down and laugh).

Everything was going hazy at a gradual pace, and Harry was so famished he was actually tempted to eat the bulbs he was planting.

"_Speaker?"_

Harry's cloudy eyes snapped at attention, but when he turned to look back and see if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon had marched out to order him to do something—or Dudley to make his plight even worse—there was no sign of them around. Save for perhaps a half-empty bowl with smears of brown, white, and pink.

"_Speaker?"_ Came the voice, a little louder. Harry saw what caused him to look up so abruptly. A small little grass snake crawled into his line of vision. Its small green head and yellow eyes peered up at him.

He always did have trouble differentiating between the two languages.

"…_Do you speak?"_

Harry's eyebrows immediately shot to his forehead, and he looked back to make sure the Dursley's weren't looking before getting closer. If they saw him talking to a snake—doing something _abnormal_—Meriln, he was cooked. …Hunger must have been really getting to him today.

He kneeled so his head was beneath the flowers. _"I can speak." _He hissed softly._ "Who are you?"_

The snake only shook its head in dismissal. _"Other boy who could speak said retrieve you. Kind boy, gave dead mouse to eat…"_

Now that Harry looked he saw that there was a small bulge in the snake's scaly body. He cringed at the thought of someone carrying a dead mouse in their pocket—unless said person was Hagrid, but Harry knew this person the snake was telling him about was not. He nodded to the tiny green creature. _"Thank you."_ He wished he could give it some food in reward too, but his pockets were as hollow as his stomach.

The snake slithered out of the garden and said nothing more.

Harry peered up once more to make sure the Dursley's were preoccupied. Dudley was sitting down in his chair—his back to the kitchen window—Aunt Petunia was doing the dishes—back _also_ to the window—and from what he could see Uncle Vernon hadn't moved up from his sports programming.

Perfect.

Quiet as the snake who informed him, Harry slunk out the back gate.

* * *

It was a good thing he was used to long periods of hunger; he was so dizzy he could barely even stand. Now that he was under the hot sun, a lot of stress under his belt, Harry thought he might faint before he even got the chance to see his "messenger".

He wobbled but the next moment he was immediately caught by the shoulder and span around to see a tall, dark, handsome boy with a pair of charming brown eyes.

arry's mouth, chapped and chafed as it was, spread out into a grin. "Sending snakes after me?"

Tom's mouth kicked up in what _could_ be taken for a smile. "Who better to keep their eyes on you than those who don't blink?"

Harry shook his head and…ah, what the hell, decided to lurch forward and catch Tom up in a bear hug. Gryffindors were notoriously touchy (not _nearly_ as touchy as Hufflepuffs, but close). Tom stiffed, as Harry knew he would, but eventually calmed down and wrapped his arms around the small of Harry's back. It took him awhile to become accustomed to physical contact, for it wasn't something he was used to getting without painful consequences…

Harry pressed a kissed against his neck and Tom shivered, giving Harry a surge of delight as he let his head rest against the taller boy's shoulder. Yes, this was nice. Even if it was just for a moment. Harry was sorry Tom had to walk all this way for a brief visit—but he was infinitely glad simultaneously.

Tom cleared his throat. "There's something I think you should have."

Harry looked up, and at the same time he nearly lost his balance…and Tom caught him _right_ after Harry felt the bulge in his trousers.

He looked up, and Tom held an apple in his hand. He looked down, and saw whatever bulge Tom was carrying…was not at the _front_ of his trousers.

Tom's eyebrow kicked up. "Something on your mind?"

Harry half-frowned and shook his head. Same, savior-ish, narcissistic Tom. "Nothing I'd want _you _helping with."

"I doubt that." Tom replied—brow still cocked, smirk still evident…

He reached down to wipe some lint off the peel before handing it up. Before Harry could grab it however he felt a warmth on his cheek. He stilled to look down and saw that _was_ Tom's hand holding his face. He fought the urge to blush and look away as Tom traveled his fingers over Harry's skin. How could a boy who grew up with such a rubbish childhood have fingers so smooth? They might have spread warmth over Harry's face but they served to make him shiver. …He especially fought to not look away as Tom's thumb found a bruise on his cheek. He needn't an explanation, but he knew where they came from. How they happened…

Harry had tried to explain it was never his aunt or uncle who struck him. Oh, they threatened to alright; Uncle Vernon said he'd even take a belt to his backside, and Aunt Petunia once or twice swung at him with a frying pan—but all they ever did was verbally abuse him, lock him away, and kept him deprived of meals. Surprising as it was, even Harry would admit, the worse they'd done was that. _Dudley_ was the one who did all the punching.

Tom stroked a cut on his lip and his eyes burned with fury, but he held up the apple, and smiled like there was nothing out of the ordinary. The red, shiny apple blazed under the sunlight, looking so round and so large it was the most perfect meal Harry had ever seen.

The urge to kiss Tom and bite into the apple was so great, and the two were scathing the other for dominance, but Tom nudged the apple into his mouth and that was that. Harry's teeth sank down into the peel and flesh, and the taste was so sweet he nearly burst into tears. But he couldn't do that, not in front of Tom. The taller boy hooked an arm around his waist and guided him to sit by the fence with him, Harry relishing the apple but torn between wolfing it all down just the same. Tom planted a kiss into his hair and Harry nearly tensed up—but that would have been incriminating, so he tried his hardest to stay focused on the apple. And he did until he torn the pulp down to the stiff core. When the food was out, Tom produced another one before his gaze could even fall. This one was yellow.

Harry paused: Red, yellow…

He looked up at Tom, who just smirked and leaned back against the fence, his arm securely around Harry. Tom had well-received Harry's Sorting into Gryffindor—though would've liked it better had he joined him in Slytherin (Harry didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't the Hat's first choice). Harry too looked up to gaze at the beautiful nothingness of the blue sky. Not a cloud was in sight today; a shame, and kind of boring, because Harry did sort of like making shapes out of the clouds on sunny days. It was his one few methods of entertainment in the Dursley household.

"Eat, Harry."

Harry hadn't realized he'd been so entranced with it though that he'd actually stopped eating. Actually, he'd yet to bite into the apple once. He subsequently sank his teeth into it and relished in the crisp, juicy taste. Even where Tom lived—the only place more miserable than _his_ was—there was food to spare…

Harry made fast work of his other apple; half-giving into his famished urges to devour the thing without shame (was Tom's hand clenching on his shoulder or was he just imagining things?) half for another reason…

Harry tossed half the core away into a nearby trashcan and didn't wait until his mouthful was swallowed before saying, "Ank-yoo." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and Tom patted his shoulder in response. He didn't mention the incontinence of Harry speaking with his mouth full—he had enough and _more_ for lesser-reasons at home.

Home.

If there was ever a more unfitting word, Tom had yet found it.

"Won't the matrons notice you're gone?" Harry spoke up, his hair even shinier in the breeze. The messy strands brushed close enough to caress Tom's cheek.

Tom bluntly replied, "If they've noticed my absence, I'll give you every galleon to my name."

Harry said no more on it and scooted in closer to the boy. If Tom made any acknowledgement of it he didn't notice. He felt Tom's hand lower down to his waist to lay itself on his own, which was flat on the ground. Harry felt the cool texture of the grass below his fingers and the softness of Tom's hand above his palm. His thumb stroked circular shapes over his skin over and over again, and Harry wished they could stay like this. Never have to worry about Wool's Orphanage or Number 4, Privet Drive again. Never worry about anybody calling them "freaks". Never have to worry about empty stomachs, angry voices, and long, sad, lonely nights. No more making their lives miserable, just for being different.

Harry supposed lots of kids felt this way, just in ways _much_ different than his and Tom's…

"I've got to go now." He said, without all the luster he had before.

Tom simply took a deep breath and buried his nose into Harry's crown, his breath flurrying the cowlicks in his locks. Without ever saying it, Tom seemed to really like his hair (at least _somebody_ did; Harry tried everything in the book to get it flatten until he eventually gave up). Harry imagined what they looked like, sitting here. No one was looking of course; all the neighbors had gone to work and the only two people here at all were Harry Potter and Tom Riddle—two lonely boys with a whole world in common.

Except perhaps for the Dursley's…Harry could just picture the look on Dudley's face, as well as every "macho" bloke in his gang, if they saw his outcast cousin cozying up with some _boy_ like he was right at home.

Which he was, so bullocks to them.

Harry brought his arms around Tom's neck, and pulled Tom lower. Tom took the hint and brought their lips to a perfect mold. God it was so fitting Harry thought he might cry: everything was just so _right_ with Tom, like there was this whole other person who knew _exactly_ what his life was, and how rubbish it had to be. The only thing _wrong_ about it was that eventually they had to go, and leave the other at his Hell's mercy.

Sometimes Harry felt like Tom was his missing half.

Tom's tongue brushed the seam of Harry's mouth, and Harry let him in—though in all sense, he really shouldn't have; he was pressed for time and the Dursley's were snappy enough as it was. But when Tom caged his jaw in, tilted his head up so it was just the right angle to meet the taller boy's, Harry couldn't protest. He grasped his hands onto the boy's shoulders and through the crisp, white (secondhand) shirt, Harry felt the plains of muscles. Tom was getting bigger and wider each day (the former far ahead of the latter); Harry had yet to catch up (in _either_ aspect).

When they pulled away, it was much too soon for either of them. Harry could still feel the taste of Tom on his lips, the tingles of where his teeth had been, and the glowing from the points his tongue had mapped out. Tom could read him like a book, but Harry wouldn't have it any other way.

They gave a final, lasting kiss—no tongue, this one chaste…somewhat—and pulled apart.

Harry stroked Tom's face. Tom allowed it. Despite going back to his hell-hole, Harry couldn't help but smile. And all the light that was inside him shined right through his green eyes.

Which brought a small, barely noticeable smile to Tom's lips in turn.


End file.
